A Second Chance at Life
by KM2000
Summary: Esme stands upon a cliff, believing that life is not worth living after losing her newborn son to lung fever. But little does she know what life has yet to offer her.
1. Sorrow

**This story came about as I was trying to write a poem for a school assignment. I thought of a poetic first line (or at least I thought it was poetic when I first wrote it), but I ended up thinking of Esme as she stands on the cliff, waiting to jump. I will add another chapter if I get enough reviews.**

**Disclaimer: The twilight saga belongs to Stephenie Meyer.**

**SORROW**

The rocks beneath my bare feet tumble through the darkness. Seconds later, I hear a distant splash, like shattering glass.

A shudder wracks my body. I bite my lip hard to keep the sobs from bursting out of my mouth. Why did it have to be this way? Why did this have to happen now? I was happy. For the first time in my life, I had been really, truly happy. My heart had swelled in joy, a golden warmth taking the place of the numb, icy feeling that had been in my chest ever since I had married Charles.

I had held him, my baby, my first born son, had listened in wonder as his piercing wails filled the air. Then he had gazed at me with those big, beautiful honey-brown eyes, and I had gazed back, awestruck, knowing in my heart that there was nothing more joyful than becoming a mother.

_Mother_. How bittersweet the word tastes now. I can feel it on the tip of my tongue, waiting for me to open my mouth so it can taunt me. Images flash in my mind: Me holding my darling baby while it suckles sweetly from my breast. Me rocking my baby to sleep in my arms, while a smile lights up his face, making him even more beautiful than I could ever imagine. My face glowing with pride as I listen as he chirps 'Mama!' for the very first time. My baby learning to walk. Everything that will never happen now.

I had always wanted to be a mother. Ever since my own mother had told me of my birth, and how precious I was to her, I had dreamed of the day when I would be the one clutching my baby to my breast, gazing in wonder at it for the first time. I had wonderful visions of my future, where I would be in twenty years' time.

Now, I peer through the darkness toward the waves crashing onto the sharp rocks below. They are barely noticeably in this starless night. Occasionally, a silvery glint can be seen as the moonlight filters weakly through the clouds. Gladness races through me. What I am considering would be that much harder if the razor-sharp rocks are in plain view. It would make it that much more terrifying, to be able to see the rocks as I plummet fifty feet through the air, to be able to envision my death before it comes.

I take one deep breath. The faint rocks below blur into the darkness before me, and I blink away the tears. No more tears; I have wept enough already to last a lifetime. All the weeping and wailing in the world will not bring my son back to me. This needs to be done.

I steady myself. It is time to do what I have planned to do all along. Why have I hesitated? Surely it is better to just do it, without thinking. Have it over and done with. Soon I will be in Heaven, with my baby boy in my arms once more. I smile through my tears at the thought.

There is one thing I regret: not seeing the strange, gentle doctor again. His image fills my mind, whole and complete. Even though it was ten years ago now, I have not forgotten him. I remember how gentle his ice cold hands felt, as he touched my broken leg while he was treating it. How anxious his face looked as I cringed in pain, and apologised. He was such a gentleman.

I feel my body tremble as I stare into the darkness. Am I doing the right thing, the best thing? I believe that I am. My heart clenches when I imagine my future without my darling baby. I cannot go on without him. I can't.

I cannot hesitate. Not now. I close my eyes, and clear my mind of any fears or regrets. I must do this. I cannot envision a life without him, my baby.

I let out a deep shuddering breath- and step into the darkness.

There is a whoosh of air, and then I am falling, tumbling so fast that I have no time to think or feel anything. It is like falling off the tree all over again, only I am plummeting to my death, not to a broken leg. There will be no one here to save me this time, and for that I am thankful.

Soon there will be no more fear, no more pain. No more of my husband. In the end he would track me down, and forcibly drag me back to Ohio. And the abuse would start all over again. So this has to be the best solution, the best end for me. I will be free of my husband, and he will be free of me. He will never hurt me again. And I will be with my baby. No one will be able to touch me ever again.

I slam into the jagged rocks. Pain jerks through me, and I scream and scream. I can barely recognize my own voice as I listen to the blood-curling shrieks. The waves catch me, and I am flung like a rag doll against the rocks again and again. The pain sears at me worse each time. The stench of blood- _my blood_- causes me to gag, and then cough, as the freezing salt water rushes down my throat.

Jagged fear rips through me. Is God punishing me for doing this? For giving into my weakness? _Please, God,_ I beg Him, _I'm sorry. It's the only way. I'll never be happy otherwise._

What else am I meant to do? My husband abuses me. My parents have disowned me for escaping my husband. My baby, whom I had loved before he was born, is dead, just days after his birth. There is no one to turn to. If I went to anyone, I would have eventually been tracked down. My life would have been just as tortuous as it had been before I left him.

I feel tickling warmth as the tears trickle down my sodden cheeks. Everyone I love and know has forsaken me. I am truly alone in the world.

The waves continue their battering assault. I am exhausted. I do not know how long I have been in the freezing waters. My muscles ache and burn, like I have been running for hours. The pain is unbearable. _Please, let me die! Please! Let this pain end! _I keep on begging silently, hoping that God will take pity on me and put me out of my misery at last.

After what seems like hours, I get my wish. I feel my muscles relax, my consciousness fade away slowly. _Goodbye_, I think as I wilt completely, the darkness covering my eyes like a suffocating, heavy blanket. I feel my lips turn up in a weak smile, and a dazzling, brilliant light appears as a tiny prick in the bleak darkness. It expands, as if it were coming closer, blotting out the darkness, and I watch, awestruck, as the gates to Heaven open.


	2. Confusion

Disclaimer: The Twilight Saga belongs to Stephenie Meyer.

CONFUSION

_Pain. So much pain. It is as if I am being burnt alive, but when my fingers touch my abdomen I can feel the dampness on my dress- the very same dress that I died in- and smell the scent of the sea. Tendrils of flame slither through my veins, and my body wracks and shudders in agony. Is this Hell? Is God punishing me for my weakness? The terrifying thought brings a cry to my lips, and I scream and scream, begging God to kill me once and for all as the pain increases, and all the while I can feel a cool hand holding mine, and a familiar, comforting voice telling me that everything is going to be okay…_

The internal fire is all but gone. I can feel it as the pain evaporates from my hands, toes, arms and legs, and from everywhere else in my body. It feels blissful and cool, and I cannot help but wonder if God has allowed me to enter Heaven after all.

But the pain in my heart swells to an excruciating level, as if the Devil is dragging me down into the bowels of Hell. Automatically, my hands reach out to clutch at my heart, the hard edges of my nails digging in deeply into my chest. Strangely, that action does not cause me pain like it should have. My feeling of horror is drowned out by the pain in my chest, which nothing will extinguish, not even God.

The burning pain surges through my heart, egging it on, and I listen with new, sharper hearing as it accelerates, beating faster and faster until it is as fast as a hummingbird's. Sometime during the burning pain, my hearing seems to have improved, as well as my eyesight. The few times I have opened my eyes, it has been like seeing a richer, new world. Everything is magnified, and I can see everything, even the specks of dust that are on the ceiling, in a different light. There is a beauty in everything that my eyes notice.

I prefer to keep my eyes tightly shut, so I do not see much of the disorienting new world that stares back at me. I do not want to believe that I am not dead after all, but trapped in my own body still, while a confusing, strange fire blazes through my veins. It is unnatural, it cannot be. I cling to that belief like a lifeline. It is best to believe that I am burning in Hell. That belief is familiar, one that I had heard of all my life before I jumped off the cliff. 'If you do something bad, you will go to Hell,' everyone always warned me. 'Hell is like an eternal furnace, punishing you for your past mistakes.' The thought of that always made me shudder in horror, but now, I would rather face the eternal furnace than the unknown. At least I would know what was coming. Now, as I hear my heartbeat accelerate to painful speeds, I have to face the truth: I am not dead. I am not in Hell. I have no idea what is happening, and the thought makes me want to shriek in terror.

The pain in my heart is almost too much to bear. I open my mouth to beg someone, anyone, to kill me now, but shut it again almost immediately. If my inner fire could be stopped, then someone would have done it long ago. I will have to endure, and wait for the pain to end at last. If there is an end…

I clutch tightly at the hand that holds mine. It is not so cool now, to my confusion. If I am burning, then shouldn't the hand feel as cold as snow? But as my heart races, its beat increasing in speed every second, the pain in my heart increases, and my mind is consumed by the unbearable pain.

Dimly, in a small part of my mind, I hear light footsteps coming towards me—a boy's footsteps. The rest of my mind focuses on the pain, and the sound of my heart beating so fast that it can surely go no faster, and the hand which has never let go of mine since the inner burning began. I squeeze the hand as hard as I can. I can dimly remember the pains of my birth, and how the nurse allowed me to squeeze her hand as hard as I could to deal with my pain. It could work now as well. So I clutch at the hand, squeezing it and squeezing it so hard that I am afraid I will damage it, but it does not crush within my grip, and the skin feels like satin, smooth and slightly soft. But it does not give in, like the nurse's hand did. That gives me comfort.

Another surge of pain comes, and my heart thuds twice, and is silent. I wait, expecting to see the gates to Heaven open before my eyes, and for my soul to drift out of my dead body. But nothing happens. Instead, my throat feels dry, parched. So parched that I almost cry out in agony.

Panic rises within me. What is happening? Why am I not dying?

"It's all right, Esme. You're safe." I recognise the voice immediately. How could I not?

I ease my eyes open to find myself lying on a bed, staring up into a pair of familiar golden eyes that are filled with anxiety. "Dr. Cullen?" I ask hesitantly. Is it really him? It seems impossible, but he looks exactly the same as when I last saw him.

I can see another person—the boy whose footsteps I heard—standing beside him, but my attention is riveted on the doctor.

"You needn't be afraid," Dr. Cullen says calmly. He is the same, exactly the same, as I remember.

"I thought I saw you during the burning, but I thought I'd imagined it…" My voice trails away as I listen in amazement at the sound. It is as if a bell is chiming.

What is happening? How has everything changed so quickly? "Dr. Cullen, what is happening to me? Why do I feel so…different?" 'Strange' and 'unusual' also come to mind, but I settle on 'different'.

"Esme," he says gravely. "You are a vampire."

A vampire? A thing of legends? I can feel my eyes widen as I begin to speak. "There is no such thing," I say, unable to raise my voice above a whisper. "It can't be true." But still, doubts flit through my mind like flies in the summer.

Memories, though dim, surface to the centre of my mind. Of the burning, feeling as if every cell of my being is on fire. Of the strange richness the world has now; even the miniscule dust motes on the ceiling can be seen by my eyes now. All of this cannot be possible, but Dr. Cullen has given me no reason not to believe him.

I take a deep breath. There is no relief in the action now; the air whistles musically as I exhale.

Should I believe Dr. Cullen? Is he telling the truth? A part of me believes that he is, but another part refuses to believe, wanting to stay in ignorance. "Is this a senseless trick you play?" I beg him.

"Esme, do you trust me?" he asks in return.

Our eyes meet, one pair pleading and the other frightened. For a moment, none of us has a word to speak.

Before the silence becomes too much, I decide to intervene. "Yes, I do," I admit quietly. And it is true. I do trust him. He is the last good memory of my childhood that I have before I married Charles.

And so he begins to speak: of how I was found in the water by a group of fishermen in a rickety boat who risked their lives to rescue me from drowning. They recognised me as the schoolteacher; I had taught at a local school to earn a living while in the town. I had always wanted to be a teacher, but I had never had the chance until then. When they arrived with me sopping wet in their arms, the doctors thought that I was dead, and sent me to the morgue. But, Carlisle says, he found me in the morgue, and realized that I was still alive. He carried my body from the morgue and took me to his home, where, he says, he bit me to change me into a vampire.

Sometime during the explanation, the boy leaves the room, slipping quietly away, leaving no trace of him ever being there at all. But I am listening intently to Carlisle's explanation, and pay little attention to it.

It is all mind-boggling. He tells me that he is a two hundred year old vampire, born and raised in England in the fifteenth century, and that his companion is also a vampire. He tells me about vampires. How they are unbeatable, unusually strong and hard, like a rock. How their skin is pale, pearl-white, and that their skin sparkles in the sunlight. He hands me an elegant, decorative mirror and I look into its depths to see a beautiful woman smiling hesitantly back at me. Her skin is as pale as winter's first snow, and her face carries a strange luminosity. Her eyes glow an almost painful crimson. It is all too strange. I cannot help but feel as if I am staring into the face of a goddess, so I look away.

"Nothing will ever be able to hurt you physically again," Dr. Cullen explains. "You are safe in that respect."

"Oh!" I think of Charles, and the abuse that would have begun again if he had found me and forced me to return to Ohio with him. Of the burning shame that I had felt each time he shouted at me, and hit me with his fist on my cheek, where I could feel a deep bruise taking shape when I woke up in bed the next morning almost crying as I felt the aches of old bruises, knowing that I was alone and that not even my mother and father would help me or believe me about Charles' abuse. Another heinous memory begins to take shape, but I thrust it from my mind as the images start to appear.

"Esme, I understand how strange this is for you, and I apologize," Dr Cullen says. "I would not have done this if I had had any other choice."

"I-I know," I say, smiling shyly at him. "I am very grateful to you."

"If you wish, you may leave and make your own way as a vampire," he offers. I gaze up at him. Even as he tells me this, I can clearly see that his eyes tell a different story. They speak of joy and guilt and longing, and a loneliness that echoes my own. And lastly, a deep love that I have not seen for several years. With that, I make my decision.

"No," I say resolutely. "I wish to stay."


	3. Remorse

**A/N: So here's chapter three! Thank you to all of you who have reviewed so far and are following this story. I really appreciate it! **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Twilight Saga.**

**REMORSE**

I am sitting on the couch in the spacious living room on the second floor, my eyes poured over a tattered copy of _Jane Eyre_, when I scent it. A smell so divine that I cannot help but sway in ecstasy. It is like no other scent I have ever come across in the five weeks that I have been living with Carlisle and Edward. It is different from the blood of the animals I have been hunting in the woodland-more sweet and enticing. Harder to resist.

Flames rip through my throat at the thought of it. All my other thoughts are chased away by the delicious scent. I must find it. I must taste the blood which has this intoxicating scent.

There is no one to stop me. Carlisle is working in the hospital, and Edward is who knows where. No one will be here to prevent me from doing this. A feral smile graces my lips at the thought, one so uncharacteristic for me that surprise floods my body, causing me to stiffen. But the scent slithers into my nose again, and all thoughts and hesitation are banished except for the need to hunt.

I close my eyes, and let the scent pull me forward. Even with my eyes closed, my feet easily glide down the staircase and out the door in half a millisecond. The street outside is deserted, save for the postman sliding a bundle of letters through the slot of the door of the house opposite ours. He whistles cheerfully, as if he hadn't a care in the world. He looks to me to be around fifteen years of age.

A breeze blows into my face, whipping my hair around me into frenzy. Along with the breeze comes a whiff of the intoxicating scent. The burn scalds my throat painfully, and I snarl through my bared teeth. The burning sensation in my throat is becoming too much to bear. I will have to do it now, so that I will not suffer any longer in trying to resist.

He hears me, and turns around. His jaw drops, and the remaining letters are scattered carelessly like autumn leaves onto the footpath. He stares at me, his face a pale as a phantom, as I stalk towards him, teeth bared.

I must look to him like an avenging goddess, with my pearl-white skin, glowing crimson eyes, and my lips curled into a predatory snarl. The boy is rooted to the footpath, his legs quaking as if he had fever, his innocent brown eyes filled with mixed emotions. I catch snatches of fear in his eyes, as well as confusion and appreciation. Tides of satisfaction rise in me. He should be afraid of me. For a moment, I feel like a powerful goddess, watching someone cower in vain before me. I feel invincible.

The postman opens his mouth to scream, and I lunge at him. Before he can say a word my teeth are sinking effortlessly into his fragile throat, and the thick, sweet liquid is flowing into my mouth -although not all of it makes it into there—quenching the thirst, and I am drinking and drinking and can't seem to stop. At first, the postman struggles weakly in my arms, but soon he slumps against my chest as his life's blood is drained from his unwilling body.

It is over in seconds, sooner than I would have liked. The flow of his blood into my mouth stops, and I dump the drained body onto the pavement, chagrined. My throat burns with thirst again, but there is less intensity, less pain.

I glare at the limp, bone-pale body on the ground. Maybe if the postman had been a burly middle aged man, my thirst would have been more satisfied. But as I gaze at the boy, my thoughts go to my own son. My son would have been like this postman if he had survived the lung fever-innocent, carefree, ready to take on the world. This postman is like my son, in that way, I realize. What right did I have to kill this boy, who had his entire life stretching out before him? He would have married a sweetheart, and had a family. His life would have been full of triumphs and losses, joy and grief. And I have taken it away from him, just so I could satisfy my burning thirst. I am no better than an animal.

It feels as if I am choking on the no longer tainted air. I whirl around and run as fast as I can into the house, so that nobody should hear me sob, leaving behind the reminder of the body of the young postman lying in a puddle of blood on the street.


	4. Joy

**A/N: It's been months now since I last updated, and I was planning on writing during the summer holidays, but I got a sudden case of writer's block. Updates may be coming less frequently now that school has started, but I will try to update as much as I can. So enjoy! :) **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Twilight Saga.**

**JOY**

"Esme, could I speak to you for a moment?"

I know it is him the moment he speaks. He has such a lovely voice; it always seems to show what he is feeling. Now, I hear sorrow, remorse and love blended into one tone. My still heart leaps to hear his voice; it is like gold to my ears. But at the same time I feel an intense remorse, remembering the mail boy. What does Carlisle think of me now? Does he think me a disappointment? I would not blame him if he does.

I do not say a word, and stay huddled on my bed, staring out the window into the once more pristine street. Images fly through my mind, tormenting me. The young boy, lying in a crimson pool on the concrete, his lifeless eyes staring accusingly up into mine. He had a mother and a father, and possibly a sweetheart. My breath catches as I think of it. How many hearts have I broken? Two? Three? Possibly more than I can count.

Another image careens into focus: an image of my son as a young man, had he lived beyond the span of a few days. Now he lies in place of the mail boy, his dear life ended in one swoop. My sigh turns into a wail of anguish. The images spin into my mind in a never ending loop, faster and faster until they blur together. I hold my head in my hands, trying to choke back the sobs that threaten to erupt from me.

How many times had I wept after I had married Charles? Every single time he beat me, I would weep. Every single time we were in bed together, I would weep. And when I told my parents of the abuse, begging them for sanctuary, and they deserted me, I wept. I cannot think now of a time when I was not weeping.

Instantaneously Carlisle is standing before me, his golden eyes filled with compassion. He reaches out a hand, palm up, and waits, while I weep tearlessly, my sobs threatening to rip my body apart. I weep for the mail boy, who never had a chance to live. I weep for my son, who died just days after breathing his first breath. And most of all, I weep for myself, for the monster I only just realized I've become.

'Why did you change me?' My voice is hushed, agonized. I ignore his outstretched hand. 'Why all this trouble? If I had died then that boy would still be alive.' _And I would be with my son_, I think but do not say.

Carlisle lets his hand drop. 'I had to,' he says quietly. 'When I saw them carry in your almost lifeless body, I knew that I had to save you. I would never have forgiven myself if I hadn't.'

'If I had died, that boy would still be alive,' I dare to say. 'I should have—'

'Don't you dare say it!' he almost shouts. I shrink back against the bed sheets, mute with shock. Carlisle never shouts. It is something that I have learnt about him during the weeks I have been living with him and his 'son'. 'Don't think it. It would have haunted me forever if you had died and I had done nothing. You did not deserve to die like that.'

There is silence between us, and it is several moments before I gain enough courage to speak again. Outside, the light is beginning to give way to darkness as the sun moves below the horizon. The flaming horizon is noticeably darker than it was half an hour ago.

'But I killed a boy,' I whisper. 'And drank his blood.'

'I know.'

'I couldn't stop…I did not want to...He was just a boy…' I babble on without taking an unnecessary breath. 'I enjoyed drinking his blood, and did not give a fig as to whether he died or not. I am such a monster!' Grief and remorse wells up in me yet again, and I struggle to hold back another torrent of sobs.

'Esme, you are not a monster,' Carlisle says calmly. 'What just happened is normal for an average newborn. In time you will learn to control yourself. And it is I who is at fault. I should have watched out, prevented this from occurring. I should have stayed home myself, or not taken Edward to the hospital with me and left him here.' The remorse is evident in his gaze.

I shake my head. For reasons unknown to me, I cannot bear to see him look so sorrowful. 'No, Carlisle. It is my fault, not yours. That poor boy would not have died if it weren't for me. I am entirely to blame for this.'

Carlisle is silent, as if mulling over his thoughts. After some moments, he speaks, 'Esme, it's happened now and you must move on from it. This happens all the time, to all vampires, newborn or not. You mustn't blame yourself for this.'

But no matter what Carlisle says, I still feel a wave of remorse, like a tidal wave in the ocean. I will always blame myself for this, and nothing he or anyone else will be able to change that.

'We will be moving on in a few days. It is best if we do not remain here, after what happened.' Carlisle refrains from mentioning my crazed hunt, as if by avoiding the word he can make it less real.

More remorse wells up in me. Now I am forcing them to leave the town that they were living happily in before I was changed. I really am a monster.

Carlisle's eyes are sorrowful, and full of compassion. 'Now will you come downstairs?' he asks gently. 'We could use your help packing up our belongings.'

I know that he is using that as an excuse to have me go downstairs again. He and Edward would be able to pack all the belongings without any help from me. But Carlisle still asks me. And I am grateful. Packing will give me something constructive to do, will make me feel worthwhile.

I incline my head, and he holds up his hand and this time I take it. But when I am standing beside him, he does not let go, and neither do I. We gaze into each other's eyes, and it is as if I can see into his heart and soul. His eyes are like honey—warm and _good_, and a wonderful golden colour, the same colour as his heart. I know that if my heart was still beating, it would be stuttering a mile a second. Something wondrous is happening; I know it in my heart. I cannot help but smile hesitantly.

And we are still holding hands when we walk down the stairs and into the hall where Edward stands, smiling knowingly at us; he has obviously been eavesdropping. And my heart is so joyful at that moment that I am not annoyed and smile unabashedly back at him.


	5. Frustration

**A/N: Finally, here is chapter five of **_**A Second Chance at Life**_**! I decided to write this chapter from Edward's point of view, not Esme's, because I just couldn't think of what to write next from Esme's POV. So read it, and don't forget to review! **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Twilight Saga.**

**Frustration**

**Edward**

As I enter the house, their voices fall silent, in a futile attempt to keep their privacy. Of course, it doesn't work.

_Carlisle looks so lovely in that new shirt I gave him last Christmas_, Esme thinks. _I wonder what he would look like with his shirt off…_ I shudder as an unwanted image of Esme and Carlisle curled up in bed together, naked, appears in my mind.

_Esme's hair looks so beautiful today. It looks so silky. I would like to touch it, but I am not sure she would agree…_Carlisle thinks dreamily.

_Should I tell him what I think?_

_Should I tell her I love her?_

_Ah, Edward's home_, Carlisle thinks. I stride into the living room, where Esme and Carlisle sit rigidly on the loveseat, hands by sides, carefully not touching each other. Embarrassment colors their thoughts. _Oh dear, I hope Edward didn't hear everything I was thinking just now…_ Esme directs her gaze into her lap. Another image of Carlisle and Esme in bed comes unwanted into my mind, and I manage _not_ to grit my teeth.

_Hello, Edward_, Carlisle greets me mentally. 'Did you hunt well?' he asks aloud.

'Yes. I found some mountain lions, and a few deer. How was your work?' I ask abruptly, pointedly ignoring their embarrassed thoughts.

'I finished work early, so I returned and found Esme here...We decided to talk…' Carlisle's voice fades away and he looks away, carefully not meeting my gaze. His thoughts show me what his voice doesn't. Carlisle had returned from work to find Esme sitting on the loveseat, head bent over a tattered copy of Jane Eyre. 'Esme?' he said softly, not wanting to startle her.

Her head snapped up. 'Oh!'

Carlisle chuckled—he couldn't help it. Esme looked terrified, like a firefly caught in the light. Her eyes were wide as saucers. 'Esme, I'm sorry I startled you. I finished up at the hospital early, so I decided to return early.' _To you_, was his unspoken thought.

'Carlisle, I'm sorry…I was just reading Jane Eyre, and it was so engrossing! I shouldn't have reacted the way I did.' Esme's eyes flitted anxiously around the room, not resting on Carlisle's face.

'Esme, it's fine,' Carlisle said gently. Briefly he felt a warmth for her fill him. He sat down next to her, turning to face her. 'How was your day?'

Esme turned to face Carlisle, fingers trembling on top of the book she was clutching on her lap. 'It was lovely, thank you. I hunted with Edward, earlier, and I have been reading. I have been perfectly happy.' She bit her lip, and looked away, embarrassed, Carlisle thought. Without thinking he laid his hand on top of hers, and felt her soft hands respond by tensing, and then relaxing, and stopped trembling altogether.

'Don't be afraid,' he whispered.

'I'm not,' Esme said. 'Not anymore.'

For a few moments they stared into each other's eyes, feeling shy and feeling their breaths rasping in their throats. Carlisle gazed into Esme's wide golden eyes, saw her beauty, her kindness. _I want to kiss her_, the thought came unbidden into his mind. _I really want to kiss her!_ He leaned forward.

The sound of a door slamming brought him back to reality. He shoved himself away, made himself sit as far from Esme as he could, feeling embarrassed and disappointed. Sneaking a glance at Esme, he saw her head droop, and knew that she felt the same. _Edward was home._

Presently, I hear Esme speak. 'Edward, do you have another copy of Jane Eyre? I'm afraid I accidently ripped it today. Could I please borrow a copy, if you have one?' She nervously holds up the book in question, which has five deep gashes in it.

_Ripped_ is an understatement. _Massacred_ is more like it. My teeth clench as I look at the destroyed book, the injuries that were caused by Esme's fingers, unwanted images, unwanted memories coming into my mind. Esme and Carlisle face-to-face on the couch, inches from each other, lustful thoughts emanating from both of them as they lean closer to each other. Esme and Carlisle lying together in bed, kissing, barely dressed. Esme and Carlisle staring deeply into each other's eyes, as if they could see into each other's' souls. By my sides, I can feel my fingers clench.

I do not want these images in my head. I don't want to see the love Esme and Carlisle have for each other, don't want to know that the only reason they are not admitting their love for each other is because of me. I can feel the fury and frustration boil in me—fury at Carlisle and Esme, for their unwillingness to admit their love, and fury at myself for being the cause of their hesitation. If I were not there, they would be free to love each other without worrying about me overhearing their thoughts.

'Edward?' Esme says tentatively. 'Are you alright?'

I take a deep breath, trying to calm down, not wanting to take out my anger on _Esme_, of all people. But when I open my mouth, it hits. 'Alright? _Alright?_ No, I'm not _alright_. I'm _never_ alright when you two are here! I have to hear and see every lustful thing you both have done or want to do to each other, and it's driving me insane! And you don't care, you just sit here and imagine away without a care in the world, as if you're the only people here! You don't give a thought to anyone else. Just like when you died. You jumped off the damn cliff, wanting to be with your damn son, not caring about anyone else but yourself.'

'Edward!' Carlisle says sternly, eyes blazing, as Esme's face pales.

I turn to him. 'And you! You care about nothing but her now. For the love of God, if you love her, say so, and end this torture that you've been putting me through. Or maybe I should leave instead.' I watch with furious satisfaction as Carlisle's face pales now. 'I'm obviously not welcome here, and you'd be much happier without me.'

I'm being cruel, I know. But the words spill out of my mouth in an uncontrollable flood, and now that they are out I cannot take them back. And I don't want to take them back, even when I see Esme struggling not to cry and Carlisle's guilt and sadness etched on his face. Even now, he does not condemn me, but looks at me compassionately, as if trying to understand. My fists shake. He should be furious at me. I want him to be furious. I want him to yell back at me, to do anything. Not this. I can't bear to meet his compassionate gaze, so I turn away, and hear his disappointed thoughts. _I don't blame you, Edward. I did not know this was bothering you so much. You should have told me. _

I meet his gaze steadily, lips curling. 'If you had not been obsessed with _her_, then maybe you would have seen for yourself.'

'Edward…' Carlisle seems at a loss for words. _Edward, I'm sorry you've been going through this. I understand. _

'No, you don't.' I direct my glare at them both. 'Neither of you do. You never will.'

Carlisle and Esme can only stare, shocked to dumbness, as I stalk out of the house and into the crisp evening air. _Get away_, a voice inside me whispers. _Run._ _Leave, and never come back. _

I think about it. It would be the perfect solution: If I run, I would not have to listen to their lustful thoughts all day and Carlisle and Esme would be able to love each other without worrying about their thoughts being overheard by me. It would be perfect.

And so I make my decision.

I run, and I never look back.


End file.
